Stepping Into Sunlight (10 page)

I’d probably accidentally hit the wrong button. The disc couldn’t be damaged. It just couldn’t. Looking forward to the next message had gotten me through several rough patches during the last few days.

I placed the disc carefully back on the shelf. I’d try again later. My housecleaning energy spent, I drained the lukewarm tea and trudged to the kitchen. I’d been letting voice mail collect any phone calls, but I couldn’t ignore them forever. When I picked up the phone, nervous beeps warned me that I had several new messages.

There is an art to returning phone calls when you’d rather not. With strategic timing, I was able to leave messages instead of facing live conversations. My mom had library guild on Wednesday mornings, and Mrs. Pimblott was teaching. I even lucked out and got ombudsman Mary Jo’s voice mail and assured her, without a quaver in my voice, that I’d be happy to get together sometime. Of course, since we weren’t speaking live, she couldn’t pin me down.

I muddled through the rest of the week. Each day I struggled to think of a good deed that I could do from my living room. I sent a supportive e-mail to Tom. I’d already thanked him for his surprise DVD recordings the morning after I found the disc. I didn’t want to tell him the DVD had stopped working, so I just thanked him again for the first message.

I mailed a donation to World Vision, a nice card to my friend Sonya, and crocheted baby booties for Cindy’s new baby. For those minutes, I felt a bit of hopefulness, a slight connection with the woman I used to be. But I continued to battle sleepless nights and dragged through the hours of each day. And the world outside my door continued to be a dark and nebulous monster.

I rationed each ounce of my energy for when Bryan got home from school. I printed out Tom’s e-mails for him, and each night after supper I typed my son’s responses and helped him send them. I spread out the contents of the craft bin, played endless rounds of Trouble, even designed an in-home obstacle course with couch cushions. But no matter how many activities I planned around the house for him, he remained restless.

“How about the library? Huh, Mom?”

“Daddy said you’d take me to our new park.”

“Know what? The beach would be a good idea.”

“I have an idea. We can go to the arcade and play games. Right, Mom?”

By suppertime on Saturday, he’d grown tired of my vague, “Mommy doesn’t feel good” excuses.

“Well, you should take your vitamins,” he shot back in a lofty impression of my mom. Then he stomped from the table and slammed his room door. His unacceptable behavior got him grounded for the rest of the evening. I sulked in the living room, and he sulked in his bedroom.

At bedtime, when he was freshly showered and in flannel, dinosaur pajamas, he nestled into my lap on the couch with three bedtime books. “Know what? This was
not
a good day.”

Poor kid. His father was at sea for months—in his mind, practically forever—and his mom a weary stranger. Time to tackle the next specific goal in my notebook. It was a big one, but it might be the breakthrough we both needed.
Take Bryan to the beach.

“Tell you what. Tomorrow, we’ll sleep in—”

“What about Sunday school?”

“We’ll skip just this once, and—”

“But we didn’t go last week, either.”

“And then, after lunch, we’ll go to the beach.”

He gasped. “Really?”

I smiled. “Really.”

Chubby arms flung around my neck. “You’re the best mom
ever
. I didn’t mean it when I told God you were doing a bad job.”

So he had squealed on me, huh? Well, at least he was remembering to pray. Someone in the house needed to.

Sunday afternoon, I kept my promise. I summoned superhuman courage for Bryan’s sake and forced myself into the car to drive the forty minutes with my son to the Virginia Beach shore. Summer visitors had vacated, and we found a deserted section of dunes. I hugged my knees and stared out at the gray-green waves. The sky hung low and overcast giving a dirty tinge to the water. Seagulls performed aerial dogfights with occasional dive-bombs when they spotted a fish. The breeze tugged hair free from my loose ponytail and wrapped strands across my neck.

Bryan jogged a short distance away and dug into the sand. His shovel scraped pleasantly as he built misshapen mounds.

I drew in a deep breath through my nose and savored the briny scent. The glaring sunlight of the past week had depressed me as it spotlighted the world outside my window, so I welcomed today’s clouds and haze. The muted shades of sand, sea, and sky seemed to understand and comfort me. I burrowed my fingers into the sand and lifted a handful. I poured the grains from one palm to another, again and again, letting the wind catch small bits.

A bird glided near and then sailed out over the ocean
. “If I
take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;
Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.”
Words from my old King James book of Psalms floated through my mind.

Even here? Far from family and friends?

I stared out toward the horizon. The ocean was bigger than this Wisconsin girl had ever pictured. The hugeness of it stretched something inside the muscles of my heart. The roar of waves rose and fell in a calming rhythm. Maybe Tom was leaning against a ship’s rail and watching these same waves. His hazel eyes would catch a hint of sea-green as he squinted toward the horizon, jaw squared in noble determination to support the men he’d pledged to serve, no matter the danger. I was so proud of him. And I longed for him to be proud of me. When he got home, I wanted to be the wife he remembered. Whole. Strong.

Tom had prayed for me. Bryan had prayed for me. Even Lydia at the neighborhood mission had prayed for me. But my throat had constricted each time I’d tried to talk to God about my struggles.

I closed my eyes. “Erase the past. Find me and bring me back to myself,” I whispered into the salty breeze. It was my first true prayer about that horrible afternoon.

Peace seeped into me like the moist air that clung to my clothes and pressed against my skin. Bryan romped the shoreline, water murmured in and back, and sand cushioned my limbs. My doubts drifted away, swallowed up in contentment. Laying my needs out before the God who made this vast ocean brought far more comfort than all my to-do lists and self-reliance. My little notebook wasn’t a bad idea. Effort mattered. But so did acknowledging my helplessness. I curled up on my Father’s lap and heard the beat of His heart, more deep and powerful than the rhythmic waves.

“Look, Mom!” Bryan scampered toward me, hands full of scavenged prizes. Sand scattered over my clothes as he slid in beside me. I laughed, and the wind caught the sound and spun it around us both.

On the drive home, I hummed happily until the fuel gauge light flickered.
Oops. Almost empty.
Tom usually kept the car filled. He’d been gone three weeks, but I’d only driven a few times and hadn’t needed to buy gas yet.

“So, Bryan. Which gas station should we try?”

“That one?” He pointed to a Quick Corner on the other side of the intersection.

I drove past. “Let’s keep looking.” Mile after mile, each gas station glared at me. They all looked too much like the Quick Corner.

Wait.
That was my old way of thinking. I’d experienced God’s peace at the beach. I was going to be fine now. Gas stations didn’t need to frighten me.

Dusk deepened the cloud cover to a slate gray, and some of the drivers turned on their headlights. I spotted a CITGO and pulled in to the pump. Overhead fluorescents made the station glow with a halo of humid air.

I took a few deep breaths.

You can do this. Nothing to be afraid of. Remember the strong God of
the ocean washing over you.

“Mommy? Who are you talking to? Why are you making funny faces? Mom?”

Turn off the engine. Get out the credit card
.

“Can we go in and get candy? Know what? I used to like Tootsie Rolls, but now I don’t. Now I like Laffy Taffy.”

A boa constrictor wrapped around my rib cage and squeezed. I couldn’t draw a deep breath. Go inside? The credit card pump with the Swipe & Go feature was difficult enough.

Get out of the car. You can do this.

Pressure swelled inside my head as a hangman’s noose closed around my neck. Maybe I was having a stroke. I gripped the steering wheel and leaned my head back. If I passed out, Bryan would be on his own. I had to push through.

“Mom, can I get Laffy Taffy if I pay you back? It’s a good idea. I have millions of quarters at home.”

“No.” I fumbled for the handle and pushed the door open.

The warm air closed over my face like a wet washcloth. With one hand on the car, I felt my way toward the gas tank. Each breath seemed to strangle me, but I got the nozzle into the tank.

I doubled over, resting my hands on my knees. The dizziness receded for a second. Then gasoline fumes pushed my stomach up to my throat.

Almost done. Hurry
.

I straightened and fixated on the numbers spinning past on the pump, willing them to click ahead more quickly.

Good enough. Enough gas to last me for a while.

My hand shook as I reached for the automated receipt.

“There. Okay. Now we can head home,” I said in my bright, Mom’s-in-charge voice, as I slid into my seat and turned to smile at Bryan.

His seat was empty.

chapter
8

“B
RYAN
? B
RYAN
!” W
AS THAT
shrill, hysterical voice really mine?

A quick search confirmed that he’d left the car. The backseat passenger door hung open a few inches. What had he been babbling about when we pulled in? Candy.

I ran for the convenience store. The door’s bells jingled and brought a sudden flashback. That same sound—
No! Concentrate
. “My son. Is he—?”

The oily-faced clerk pointed to one of the aisles. My beach shoes slapped the linoleum as I ran.

Bryan squatted midway down the aisle. “Look, Mom. They have Laffy Taffy in four flavors. Can I get some?”

“Bryan Patrick Sullivan, get back in the car now.” Clint Eastwood never issued a tougher clench-jawed ultimatum.

Bryan’s eyes widened. He threw one more longing look at the candy shelves and then trudged toward the door. I grabbed his arm and marched him to the car.

“Don’t
ever
do that again. Do you understand? No! Don’t say anything. You listen to me. When I tell you to wait in the car, you wait in the car. What were you thinking?” Angry words continued to spew.

He scampered to keep up. “Ow.”

My grip on his arm was tighter than necessary but not as tight as my anger craved. Rage burned through my veins and built into a swirling pressure in my head that made me feel as if my skull would fracture from within.

“Don’t say a word. You are grounded.” I snapped his seat belt into place and slammed the door.

“That’s not fair. All I did was—”

“Shut up!”

I’d never shouted at him like that before. A rational part of my brain knew Bryan didn’t deserve such rage. Yet I couldn’t push it back.

His chin trembled. “How long am I grounded?”

“Two years.” We pulled out of the gas station, and I fought to keep the car steady when my whole body shook with white-hot intensity.

After a long silence Bryan cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

I didn’t answer.

At home, I sent Bryan to his room. He hurried down the hall with a worried glance over his shoulder, while I followed close on his heels. His door closed safely between us. His bed creaked, and he cried with the same despair and pain he had two years earlier when he’d broken his arm.

Instead of going to him, I ran for my bedroom. I’d tried to control the shakes, but now they grabbed me. The bedroom was too exposed, so I slipped into the closet, pulled the door shut, and sank to the floor. Sobs broke free from deep in my gut, and even with a sweatshirt pressed against my mouth, keening sounds of misery burst from my chest to fill the tiny dark space. I was lost. Memories burst free. A horrible muddle of images, sounds, smells.

I cried until exhaustion lowered me back to the numb place where I’d existed the past weeks.

“What’s happening to me?” My whisper met black silence.

I couldn’t fight the despair alone any longer. The screaming harridan dragging her child through the gas station, the irresponsible mother who wasn’t returning phone calls, the broken woman huddled in her closet—she needed help. The past weeks had changed her.

No, That Day had changed her. The last few weeks had solidified the process like slowly drying concrete. I didn’t have the energy to chip at the cement. Besides, even if I could, I wouldn’t find my old self inside. That person didn’t exist anymore.

That
Penny was dead and buried beneath a granite slab of fear.

The peaceful interlude at the beach had teased me with a reminder of normality. But the gas station had shaken loose my bundled fears and shown me my healing was far from complete. I huddled into a tight ball, wanting to shrink smaller and smaller until I could disappear.